


Leaving the Woods

by breathtaken



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: Her brother, closer than any other, chose the life of a city thief over her; and every night without him she curls around Trinket in her paltry bedroll, longing for his warmth at her back. Dreaming of clawing him back like an animal, back in time, back into her heart, back to the woods.
Relationships: Vax'ildan/Vex'ahlia (Critical Role)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Leaving the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers to Episode 48: Into the Frostweald.

Sometimes, in the pivotal moment, you can feel the deft touch of the hands that change you; other times you only feel their echoes, reflecting off slick, dark stone, filling you with the chill of the tomb:

Deep beneath the Marrowglade Loch, Vex died, and Vax did not.

Now he is touched by a god, and she is not.

It’s true that at first she didn’t understand what had happened, because her brother fucking _lied_ to her face, before walking off without another word once the truth came out; and once she did then she didn’t understand its true significance, or didn’t want to. Pike had died before her, and she was brought back to them, newly white-haired, but still their Pike; and when Vex self-consciously pulled her braid over her shoulder there wasn’t even a single white strand among the brown.

There may have been seven shocked, stricken faces leaning over her, as Trinket nuzzled and licked her face with a near-unbearable urgency, but she was breathing. Shaken, as anyone would be, but otherwise unchanged; after all, when you have the magic of the divine on your side, then what’s a little death?

But even back in Whitestone, Vax’s face still wore that particular pinched look it gets when he’s keeping something from her, and she had to go to Keyleth, loving and guileless, to find out what had happened; but when she woke the next morning to find him sleeping in her doorway, her anger at him evaporated like steam.

He held her to him so tightly it hurt, and for the first time in a long time she wanted to cling to him like she used to and not let go, entwine their bodies until she barely knew where he ended and she began.

Her beautiful, fool brother. 

She still can’t imagine how he felt. Who would she be, without him? It’s unthinkable, like being half a person.

And then she saw the ravens.

She can’t deny there’s something happening to him, that will change him irrevocably; and though she will never not be grateful to him for her life, his new god is just another thing that comes between them. 

The tragedy of the twins has always been thus: of the same womb, the same flesh, closer than any lovers, still they can never be as close as they were at the perfect moment of their birth. 

Life is a blade, cleaving them ever more apart; and the urge to turn back, to claw him back, is a wounded animal inside of her that never stops howling.

If she were to go to Pike now and ask her what it means to die and to rise again, Vex wonders if she would find her truly so unchanged.

Instead she keeps her silence, and remembers.

She remembers the children only Mother could tell apart, no-one else seeing past the same pale skin and heavy dark braids, the same pointed ears and chin. They were still the same height back then, and sometimes when they looked in the glass together, Vex could almost forget which set of eyes she was looking out of. 

While Mother worked from sunup to sunset they were left mostly to their own devices, learning to forage and grow a few vegetables from old Martha but more often than not running half-wild in the woods, too young to understand how they were set apart from the human society around them, or why they would need anyone else when they had each other.

Before they started to have secrets that did not include the other.

Before her brother, closer than any other, chose the life of a city thief over her; and every night without him she curls around Trinket in her paltry bedroll, longing for his warmth at her back. Dreaming of clawing him back like an animal, back in time, back into her heart, back to the woods.

One day, much later, he will tell her the truth. But by then it will be too late, the wound will be a scar that never fully loses its ache, and the mask she wore as she lied and told him she’d be alright without him will barely hurt any more when she slips it on.

The lie on his own face a mirror; and that fine wicked blade between them, cleaving.

The days are longer without him, the late summer heat thick and cloying, and there’s a permanent prickle at the nape of her neck now she has nobody at her back. She barely sleeps without him, hunts at dawn and dusk and forages in the day, and simmers with resentment all the while.

She doesn’t understand. Why now, when they were doing better than they have since leaving Syngorn? They may be far from rich but the truly bitter winters are behind them, she’s made sure of that, and it’s certainly not about the money – Vax has this newly distasteful expression on his face every time he hands over coin that reminds her uncomfortably of Syldor even as it makes her fear what he’s doing to earn it.

The heat must be stifling in the city. She wonders if he’s taken to sleeping in the day and doing his jobs by night, and that’s why he doesn’t come. She wonders _where_ he sleeps, and if he’s alone. 

They were happy. Weren’t they? Happy as they can be, at least; he’s certainly not happier now.

For the first time there are gold pieces among the silver, but she’d rather have him beside her even more than gold.

Maybe she should try and be kind. Supportive, understanding – but why should she, when he hasn’t even _tried_ to make her understand?

No. He _left her_ and she hates him for it, and she’s never had the luxury of being kind.

He leaves her again during two days of wicked storms that pierce the heat and soak her so thoroughly that she’s forced to abandon her treetop bedroll for a nearby cave; and comes back to her with the first chill and a purse so heavy that she gasps when she catches it, him already turning away, and her breath catches in her throat when she tips it out onto the still-sodden mulch before her and it spills almost pure gold.

When she’s finished counting it’s over a hundred, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In the end she does neither, just kneels down in the leaves, feeling the chill seep through her leathers, and holds it in her hands for a long time. 

She finds him in the stream, washing the grime of the city away. Their bodies have grown apart, from the brand between his shoulder blades to his slim hips, and when she wades in beside him he doesn’t quite look at her.

There’s still blood under her nails and there are fingerprint bruises blooming on his neck, and she _wants_ him to look at her. 

What will it take to make him look at her?

Once upon a time, she would have known.

She steps forward and puts her palm between his shoulder blades, over the brand, and he freezes.

For the first time in her life, he scares her.

She turns and splashes away, too loud, and when she dries herself off she’s shaking.

He’s brought fresh city bread that they eat with rabbit stew, the only sounds Trinket’s snuffling and the crackle of the fire. There’s a cut high on his cheek and a low, sick anger hanging over him like a cloud, and she doesn’t know if he needs to fight or cry or if he’ll let her into either.

It makes her want to scream. It makes her want to rage. It makes her want to rush to the city gates and pierce the hearts of everyone who’s ever hurt him.

Instead she banks the fire, and watches as he climbs their tree.

Their whole lives they’ve slept entwined like vines but now he doesn’t quite touch her, the air between them hot in their shared bedroll under the canopy, and a few scattered stars peeking through; with the cloak of night to shield her she reaches for him, pushing her thigh between his until he makes a noise like he’s wounded.

She freezes – but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t push her away; his body is hot against hers, his breathing trembling, and she knows what she is, a half-wild thing with only the woods at her back, and she knows what she wants. 

He’s _hers._ He _is_ her, closer than a mere brother, closer than any lover; she may not know who’s touched him but her hands are hotter and she’ll claw him back quite wild, back in time, back into her heart, back to the woods. 

When they touch him, they’ll feel her. When they kiss him, they’ll taste her. When he howls for another, he’ll still be howling for her.

There is no him without her.

When she bites his lip she draws blood, and he doesn’t push her away.

At dawn, she wakes to find him gone.

She goes down to the stream, and scrubs her fingers until they’re shrieking and there’s not a single speck of blood beneath her nails.

That day she and Trinket go fishing for trout, which she cooks in the embers and eats with potatoes and dandelion greens, and as dusk falls her brother slinks back into their camp with his expression hangdog and his eyes raw.

They lie down nose to nose under the canopy and just look at each other, and for the first time since he left her, he truly lets her see.

She lays a gentle palm against his cheek, and just smiles. 

They don’t need words. They never have. 

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers, and his breath is hot on her face as this time, he touches her first.

Still the winter sharpens its dagger, and does its inevitable work; however deep they may reach, no mere fingers can stop a blade.

His visits have always been erratic: he’ll come back to her every few days for a stretch, and then there will be a longer absence, always unannounced. She thinks the longest has been a fortnight, though it was only when she realised she needed to go into the city to do her own trade, for the first time in months, that she truly started to fear.

She hates it in the city. She doesn’t remember it being like this with Vax, when they just came here to steal, but she’s been alone for so long; and now all these eyes on her – laden with still-bloody pelts, her grimy leathers and feathered braid, her ears, her _bear_ – are intolerable, the frank, unfriendly way the merchants appraise her setting her teeth on edge as she counts out her coppers, and it isn’t even an hour before she leaves by the same gate she entered at, cursing her _stupid_ inconstant brother, self-conscious, ashamed, afraid.

Syngorn, Westruun, they pretend to be so different but the way they look at her is exactly the same, and even the new weight of her coin purse is no consolation as she scrubs the angry tears from her eyes, refusing to worry.

If he was in real danger she’d know it, would feel it. _He’s probably off brooding somewhere,_ she tells herself, stomping into the forest again like a child, not caring when twigs snap beneath her feet and birds scatter at her approach. 

He’s there waiting for her, cleaning blood off a wicked cut along his ribs; and for the first time since they were children she runs to him, beating her fists against his chest and cursing him until he grabs her wrists, and she spits in his face when he tries to calm her.

He stares at her shocked, her spit dripping down his cheek – and that’s when she breaks.

“Vex. Vex’ahlia, please.” He sounds terrified – _good,_ the selfish part of her thinks, even as they sink to the forest floor and she shakes apart in his arms, half-blinded by tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. They took me out of the city. We were in Kymal for over a week. I didn’t know they were going to do that. But I’m back. I’m here now.” He’s rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, like Mother used to do. “I’m here now.”

She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and says nothing. What is there to say? 

He’s made his choice, and she will live with it. Waiting, chafing, existing, hoarding every copper he gives her and not knowing what will come after it, or when, doing nothing, being no-one when he’s not with her.

She knows he can see it. She hopes it hurts him. She hopes _she_ hurts him.

She can taste his desperation when he kisses her.

A week later he brings her sweet pastries, and asks apropos of nothing, “What do you think about Stilben?”

Vex doesn’t think she’s ever thought about Stilben in her life.

Suspiciously, she asks, “What’s in Stilben?”

Her brother shrugs. “It’s not Westruun. We could find mercenary work. Even go across the sea if we wanted. I’m sure you could kill monsters with that bow as well as you do rabbits.” He falters on the last few words.

She has a hundred thoughts at once, but what comes out is, “Is that what you’ve been doing, then? Killing monsters?”

She knows she’s struck true when he shifts, eyes sliding away from hers. “Some.”

“People?”

For a moment she doesn’t think he’ll answer.

“Some.” His tone is flat, and when he meets her eyes again, his gaze is pleading. “I did what I had to.”

She can see him bracing for an onslaught, and she knows the defensive set of his jaw as well as she knows her own; in all these months this is the most he’s ever told her, and what she really wants to know is, _why now,_ and what does he want from her in return?

She’s been his sanctum, she realises: unknown and unknowing, like a mistress, and the thought makes something inside of her twist.

Too sharply, she asks, “Can you just leave them, then?”

He shrugs, which means _no._ “They’re not gonna bother coming after me, as long as I don’t fuck them over. And we’ve got enough money now.” 

She can’t believe _that’s_ it, at the root of all this; she doubts he even knows how much money they have, with the way he throws it at her like it’s soiling him.

But this is what she wanted, and so she makes herself smile. “It will be nice to have meals I don’t have to kill myself.”

He smiles back at her like he used to, back before all this, and there’s an answering thrum beneath her skin as she almost forgets how much they hurt each other.

The next act in their tragedy, but at least they’ll be together. With a plan, and some skill too, not just two ragged, stubborn kids looking no further than their next meal. They could make enough for security, even some small prosperity.

And her brother at her back again, more important than anything.

She asks, “When?”

She isn’t sure what makes him look so relieved: that she’s saying yes, or that she’s not asking why.

“I’ll come and get you as soon as I can.”

Later she watches him as they bathe, appraising the pale lean lines of his body, the dark rope of his hair slung over one shoulder, searching for new scars – and stares back frankly when he catches her, rolling her shoulders and pushing out her chest, daring him.

They’ve always touched under cover of darkness, the furtive, unspoken heat of their bedroll, and for the first time he looks _scared_ of her, of what she might say, or do. 

Like he hasn’t pulled her to him just as hungrily, she thinks, with a flush of anger, like his cries haven’t mingled with hers in the night.

She smiles like a sphinx, and splashes him in the face.

Trinket’s rapidly growing too big to sleep up in the trees, so they bed down in the cave, his furry hide a bulwark between them and the open forest, the sunset a sliver above.

Her brother is stiff as he slips in beside her – spooked, she thinks – and as she presses her body against his he says, “Vex’ahlia,” like it pains him. 

He presses his palm against her breastbone, and she almost – _almost_ – tells him how she feels.

Instead, she tucks her head against his neck and says, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I wonder if I can remember any civilised ways.”

He snorts. “You’ll be calling them all _darling_ and flashing your tits for a silver off the price again before you know it.”

They’re never _nice_ to each other, exactly, but there’s a hardness in his voice that hurts.

Like everything she’s done hasn’t been to _keep them alive,_ just like him.

“Jealous, are we?” she bites – and feels him freeze against her.

“You’re my _sister,_ ” he protests weakly, and seriously, _fuck him –_

“I don’t remember that mattering when you had your fingers in me, _brother._ ”

There’s a beat of shock before he shoves her – and she doesn’t hesitate to fight back, grabbing his braid and pulling as her thighs clamp around him, and it’s a few seconds of struggle before she realises he’s not trying to push her off at all but is holding on, fingers digging bruises into her skin, pulling her against him, _shaking_ –

“ _Please,_ ” he begs, and she doesn’t know if he wants her to have him or have mercy on him, or if he even knows himself.

She puts her lips to his ear.

“ _Hear this,_ Vax’ildan. You are mine, and I am yours. And I promise you: you will never love anyone else like you love me, and there will never be anyone else who will understand.” She pauses, lets her words sink in, feels him tremble under her hands. “I _am_ you, and you are me. _And I will never let you go._ ”

And as she waits, and listens to his ragged breathing against her ear, she wonders if this will be enough to break him, if every poorly-concealed thought he’s ever had will come tumbling out – 

– but instead he kisses her with everything he has, his nails bright points of pain, his teeth drawing blood, their bodies cleaving together until they’re whole again.

She never sleeps better than when she’s in his arms, but as always he’s gone by first light, and she wakes to Trinket nosing at the empty space in their bedroll, no doubt thinking of breakfast.

In the days that follow, she can feel the winter receding; she doesn’t _want_ to go back to the city, exactly, but she can tell when the scales have tipped.

The seasons will always change, and for the first time, she doesn’t miss him.

A full week passes before he returns, with a pack strapped to his back. It’s the first of Dualahei, he tells her with a smirk, as if he’s amused by what a wild thing she’s become; Stilben should be two or three days’ travel at a careful pace. It might take a bit of time to find their feet, but at least they’ll be together – that last said with the same pleading expression that he wore when he told her he’d killed, as if he wasn’t the reason they weren’t together in the first place, as if he hadn’t left her.

But he knows he is hers, and so she smiles like she forgives him as she takes his arm and agrees, “Let’s go.”

Silent with Trinket loping by her side, the weight of her pack on her shoulders and her brother’s hand warm in hers, she leaves the woods for the final time, and walks towards the sun.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Leaving the Woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25289995) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




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